


Fury

by woodironbone



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Dissociation, Dominant Aziraphale, Emotional Constipation, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodironbone/pseuds/woodironbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 1939. Aziraphale channels his impotent angelic rage with the state of things in pre-WWII Europe into a not particularly healthy tryst with a very confused Crowley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fury

It is April of '39, and it is raining. It rains rather a lot these days.  
  
Aziraphale stands sodden in the park, overcoat soaked through, unopened umbrella resting at his side. He stands fixated, ruminating, on the body of a sparrow. He has been at this for at least seven minutes.  
  
He hates this century. Absolutely abhors it. He didn't think he was capable of hate, but there's no other way he knows how to characterize the sensation, which is unpleasant and feels vaguely of sick. It's all been nothing but trouble so far, trouble and disappointment and endless bloody atrocities. And now he's being sent away. Not enough thwarting to be done in the Kingdom, so starting tomorrow it's off to Germany. Miserable, starving, corrupted Germany. He'll have to change his shape again. And he'd become so fond of this one.  
  
None of this matters, of course. He'll do his duty as directed, he always does. But there's something keenly apposite about his current state, standing there in the rain, wet and bedraggled, actively refusing to employ the umbrella he has been carrying for this exact circumstance. Staring down numbly at this dead little bird as though it is the saddest thing in the world.  
  
"Oi, angel."  
  
Aziraphale bristles, a sort of itchy prickling running up his spine. An alarmingly contemptuous sneer shifts briefly across his face, and he tamps it down impatiently. His counterpart does not deserve the satisfaction.  
  
Crowley slinks up behind him and presses in too close, as he so often does. He leans over Aziraphale's shoulder to peer down at what's got the angel's attention and snorts. "So symbolic," he drawls. "Why don't you just bring it back to life or something? Melodrama doesn't suit you." He lips coyly at a cigarette, blowing smoke just past Aziraphale's face.  
  
The episode with the bird, as Aziraphale would later come to view it, is something like a fugue state; a temporary, discomfiting loss of self. He watches at a distance as his manifested body moves on its own, his angelic self-control lost for just a moment, one moment long enough.  
  
Crowley's already nattering on, heedless as Aziraphale swivels around to face him. "You've been reassigned as well, I take it," he's saying. "Pity. I did like this look on you. Shame we never got to—"  
  
Aziraphale seizes him by the throat. Crowley has just enough time to utter an indignant collapsed syllable, eyes widening behind his dark glasses, before Aziraphale's brought them both elsewhere, to the little flat that will no longer be his in the morning.  
  
"Wh—" Crowley sputters at the sudden displacement, then shifts rapidly from startled to annoyed, his hand going automatically to Aziraphale's wrist. "Oi, what's gotten into you? Let me—"  
  
Aziraphale lets his hand tighten, cutting Crowley off again. Crowley's genuinely alarmed now, cigarette dropped to the floor and both hands wrapped around Aziraphale's arm, struggling to wrench himself free. "What are you doing?!" he snaps. "Have you gone absolutely mad?"  
  
"Quiet." Aziraphale's voice is a lot lower than usual, and Crowley obeys the command out of sheer surprise. Aziraphale pauses to rub out the cigarette with the tip of his Oxford, then backs Crowley right up into the wall, pulling off the demon's glasses and tossing them callously aside. Crowley stares at him, stunned, slack-jawed, uncharacteristically speechless.  
  
"Do you realize what's _happening_ out there?" demands Aziraphale, unsettled by his own anger but not enough to quell it. "What your side has helped create? What _will_ happen?"  
  
Crowley continues staring for a moment before he barks out a laugh, his lips twisting into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. "You think _we_ did all _that_?" he says, his voice a lot higher by contrast. "You really think humanity needed our _help_? Give them some credit." He wriggles a little, as though testing Aziraphale's resolve. "Come on, angel, let me go already. This isn't like you."  
  
It isn't. Aziraphale knows that, and knows that if Crowley is concerned it's not so much for his own neck as it is for Aziraphale's sanity. He also knows that the demon is likely just as appalled as he by the current situation in Europe, but he'd never admit to it, and in any case that is certainly not the point, not when Aziraphale feels sick and hollow and desperate for someone tangible to blame. He squeezes Crowley's throat a little harder, rubbing his thumb down the column of it, making the demon gag.  
  
"Isn't this what you're after?" he says softly. He rubs his hips against Crowley's by way of demonstration, finding a perverse, bitter sort of satisfaction in the startled gasp and shivering inhalation he gets in return. It's so rare to catch Crowley off guard. "Aren't you always looking for an excuse to debase yourself?"  
  
"Generally it's not _me_ in need of debasement," Crowley sulks, his voice coming out thin and strained. In spite of his clear agitation, his skin is flushed and hot, and he rubs right back. Aziraphale can feel him, already hard in his trousers. It's another sign of his own dissociation that he almost doesn't care. It took him such a long time to come to terms with his own occasional bouts of lust, to engage in this kind of base activity, and with a demon of all things. And now he's just throwing himself in, shocking his own system, like jumping directly into icy water. He's _initiated_ it. Has he ever initiated it? He can't be bothered trying to remember.  
  
"Well," he says, "count this as a win for you if it makes you feel better."  
  
Crowley looks a bit shocked, which is novel enough that Aziraphale doesn't mind grinding up against him, warping his expression back into something plaintive and wanton. The press of his hand against Crowley's throat would have already done a great deal of damage if they were human, but as it is, Crowley seems to be enjoying it in spite of himself, squirming and twitching against him.  
  
"Are you— _nghk_ ," Crowley swallows with great effort, his lips parted and wet, "are you actually _punishing_ me because you're narked about the blessed _Nazis_?" He doesn't wait for an answer, half-sneering and half-smirking again, licking his teeth. "You are a mad bloody bastard, aren't you? I always suspected."  
  
It's true, of course, though Aziraphale's loathe to admit it to himself or anyone, that this has nothing to do with Crowley, and everything to do with desperately needing an outlet for his impotent rage at the sheer injustice of it all. It won't help. It will probably make things worse. But the Effort's been made and there's no backing out now.  
  
With a growl, he presses Crowley harder to the wall and kisses him, rough and sloppy, filthier than what he usually goes in for. His hand shifts from Crowley's throat to his jaw, keeping him firmly in place. Crowley moans outright and bucks against him, either completely overwhelmed by this sudden show of force, or so enjoying the novelty of it that he's actually choosing not to be his usual contrary self. Aziraphale doesn't particularly care which.  
  
He breaks away, leaving Crowley wracked and gasping. "Y-you," he breathes, then manages a grin. "Oh, _angel_ ," he taunts sinuously. "Fallen so far from the tree." He braces his hands on Aziraphale's hips, pulling himself forward with an abrupt jerk, perhaps trying to surprise Aziraphale back into scandalized normalcy. "What are you going to do, then? Ravish me?" His forked tongue slips out from between his lips and flickers suggestively. "What do you think Above will say if they see you acting out?"  
  
Sod this, actually. Aziraphale doesn't want this to be a win for Crowley, and he doesn't want Crowley to think it is, either. He releases the demon's throat and grasps his wrists instead, slamming them back against the wall, pulling his arms down and holding him pinned. He surges forward, forcing a knee between the demon's legs (pulling from Crowley's book, really, where else would he have learned all these tricks but from the old days, when this was very, very different—when they were still both fooling themselves into thinking it was all forced temptation, which it never, ever was) and leans in tighter, lips trailing over Crowley's ear.  
  
"And your people?" he murmurs. "What would _they_ think, you surrendering yourself to an angel? "  
  
Crowley goes abruptly still beneath his hands, for a moment helpless but to let Aziraphale grind against him, all but crushing him against the wall.  
  
"I—What makesss you think I've ssssurrendered?" he hisses obstinately, letting his tongue flick into Aziraphale's ear. "I could turn thissss back on you at any moment."  
  
"Could you." Aziraphale tugs Crowley's wrists further down, rooting him even as he pushes his knee up, and the demon lets out a strangled groan.  
  
"Basssstard," whispers Crowley, squinting at him, his snake pupils noticeably dilated.  
  
"Mmh." Aziraphale kisses him again, open and argumentative, and Crowley meets it with irritable force. He's stubborn, he'll never admit to giving ground, but oh, he wants this, Aziraphale knows him well enough to know exactly how much he wants it. Which is more important, just now, than examining how much _he_ wants to do what he's doing.  
  
He breaks away without warning and pivots Crowley around, shoving him hard enough that he staggers backwards and falls, just missing the bed, sprawling on the floor beside it. Aziraphale strides over imperiously as Crowley scrambles to get up.  
  
"Bastard!" he says again, less flirtatiously and more earnestly indignant. He turns to scowl up at Aziraphale, who has come to a halt standing over him, astride him, really, trapping him on the floor.  
  
"What the fuck's the matter with you?" demands Crowley. "Why're you being all… _this_?" He flaps a hand uselessly, a gesture meant to encompass all of Aziraphale.  
  
Aziraphale says nothing. Crowley's legs are bent up at the knee, his hands braced on the floor, his back against the bedframe. Aziraphale shifts his weight back to one foot and insinuates the other between Crowley's thighs, heel planted on the floor and sole resting gently but firmly against the crotch of Crowley's tight black trousers.  
  
Crowley tenses sharply beneath him, sucking in a breath so hard Aziraphale can hear it hitting the back of his throat.  
  
Aziraphale shifts ever so slightly, leaning his weight forward by gentle degrees.  
  
"Hghhn," whines the demon, squirming and writhing like the snake he used to be. "Ohh, fuck, 'ziraphale—"  
  
"Beg me for mercy," says Aziraphale coldly, and presses down.  
  
Crowley yelps and stares up at him, his mouth hanging open, half-grinning in exhilaration. He's exquisitely aroused—annoyed, confused, and aroused—moaning softly as Aziraphale works his foot casually back and forth. Still, it seems he's not sure what to make of this directive, giving it a moment of disgruntled consideration.  
  
"You're off your tit," he says derisively, apparently deciding to call the angel's bluff. "I'm not— _aghh_!" He snaps inward like a released rubber band, coiling over Aziraphale's foot, gasping heavily. He looks up, a bit more demure now (or is Aziraphale imagining it?), blushing noticeably.  
  
"P-please," he says a little hesitantly.  
  
Aziraphale leans in, eliciting another hungry shriek. "You can do better than that," he says.  
  
Crowley growls low in his throat and looks up, defiant in spite of his clear arousal. Aziraphale steps down hard before he can say anything smart, and he gasps and cries, " _Nnygh_ , stop! Please! Stop, I—I'll be good."  
  
Aziraphale blinks. This isn't entirely what he'd been expecting, and it seems Crowley didn't expect it himself, the way his eyes go wide, staring affronted into the middle distance.  
  
Aziraphale smiles and lifts his foot, letting Crowley sink down a little, breathing heavily.  
  
"Will you, now?" he says.  
  
"Bugger off," says Crowley, thoroughly hassled. "You know how easy it is to say things when—"  
  
Aziraphale doesn't want to hear about it. He lifts Crowley up and drags him onto the bed, depositing him roughly and without ceremony, ignoring the demon's subsequent kicking and protesting. He climbs up and straddles the demon across his chest, catching Crowley's arms between his knees and pinning them to his sides. Crowley gapes up at him, his expression unable to decide between flustered and offended.  
  
"Who _are_ you?" he sputters. "And what have you done with my angel?"  
  
Aziraphale digs his fingers into Crowley's hair, which is thick and soft, and soon to be different if he's being reassigned as well. He doesn't even know where, it occurs to him belatedly.  
  
"Where are they sending you?" he asks.  
  
"What, is this an interrogation now?" says Crowley, his breathing so shallow Aziraphale can feel his skinny chest heaving up against him. Aziraphale curls his hand into a fist, giving his hair a good solid tug, and Crowley tilts his head back with an almost catlike sound, half growl and half moan. He arches up, raising his hips off the bed, unbalancing the angel slightly; Aziraphale splays his other hand across Crowley's clavicle, pushing him back down.  
  
"Just wondering," he says even as his hand drifts back up to the base of Crowley's throat.  
  
"S-Soviet Union," Crowley says through gritted teeth, squinting up at him. "Nothing out there but snow and oppression. Rest assured I'll be every bit as miserable as you."  
  
Probably true, but it makes Aziraphale grimace all the same. He closes his fingers around Crowley's throat and squeezes slowly, still holding him by the hair. He lowers all of his weight onto Crowley's chest, his breath hitching as Crowley writhes beneath him.  
  
"Hnn—please, Aziraphale!" Crowley gasps, arching up again. He's in no real danger, they both know it—he could stop this so easily. Layers upon layers of convenient prevarication, a whole language of misdirection that has taken them actual centuries to cultivate. Without looking or touching Aziraphale knows Crowley's hard as rock, and that he can feel the firm, unseemly bulge of Aziraphale's erection pressed against his chest.  
  
"L-let me taste you," Crowley begs, fully into the swing of things now, it seems. "Please, _make_ me."  
  
Aziraphale frowns thoughtfully and releases his respective holds on Crowley's throat and hair, raising his hands and passing one almost casually over him. Just like that, the demon is not only naked but bound, wrapped in the soft _kinbaku_ rope Crowley's been known to employ ever since he pulled his brief stint in Japan during the Shimabara Rebellion. Not bad work, either, if he says so himself; Crowley's arms are bound tightly behind his back, fixed to a loop around his shoulders and connected leashlike to the bedframe. His legs are spread, tied to opposite corners of the footboard, leaving him more or less immobilized. Aziraphale remains perched over him, fixing him with a mild smile.  
  
Crowley splutters for a moment, taking in his new predicament, and for a moment he almost looks impressed—then he looks up at Aziraphale, his amazement fading just as quickly as it came upon him. Now he doesn't look excited so much as _nervous_ , truly nervous, not just playing a part. "Aziraphale," he says slowly, "are you all right?"  
  
"Have I ever told you that you talk too much, my dear?" says Aziraphale calmly, clamping his hand down on Crowley's mouth. He has told him this, of course, many times in many different contexts, but something tells him Crowley's muffled indignation has nothing to do with being scolded. Aziraphale rejects the demon's obvious concern. He wants none of it. He resumes rocking his hips slowly across Crowley's chest, the scratchy fabric of his trousers sliding frictively across all that bare skin. He can feel Crowley's teeth and tongue fighting against his palm, but he ignores it for now, giving himself a moment to just _take_. There's a part of him, he supposes, that is frightened at himself, but it's distant and easy to stamp out while in the thick of it.  
  
"Aziraphale!" Crowley yells impatiently, twisting to get his mouth free. "Come off it, angel, you're never like this, what's going on with you?"  
  
"Shut up." Aziraphale grabs him again, holding him by the back of his neck. "Just _shut up_ , Crowley. Please. I'm begging you." He drops down and kisses him, softer this time, with a little more of the tender awkwardness they're both used to. This is familiar ground for Crowley, he knows, and the temptation to bite mischievously will be too great to resist; sure enough, though perhaps a bit reproachfully, Crowley catches Aziraphale's lower lip between his teeth and sucks hard.  
  
Aziraphale pulls back and stares him down, daring him silently to bring up the room's well-evaded elephant again before this is done.  
  
Crowley pouts briefly, then says, "What do you want me to do, then?"  
  
Aziraphale relaxes slightly, relieved that the game can continue. He runs his hands slowly over Crowley's chest, pausing to thumb at his nipples, drawing a series of reluctant whines and squirms.  
  
"Oh, go on," he says. "Haven't you always wanted this? Isn't this what you're always trying to incite?"  
  
"What? Punishment from you?" Crowley sniffs. "No thank you. I _do_ have some dignity, after all."  
  
"Liar." Aziraphale gives his nipples a prompting tug, and Crowley sucks in a breath, visibly struggling not to show his hand.  
  
"Demon," he retorts with a lopsided grin, as though introducing himself. A little more breathlessly, he adds, "At your service."  
  
Aziraphale lifts his chin, as if to say _that's right_. He scoots forward and lifts himself up a bit, kneeling over Crowley's shoulders as he unbuttons his fly and gently eases his cock out. Crowley wets his lips, his inhuman tongue flicking out and brushing teasingly over the head. Aziraphale shudders in surprise at the effectiveness of so light a stimulation, barely catching himself from collapsing forward.  
  
"Easy there," says Crowley, grinning enough to show teeth. "Poor darling, so sensitive. Can you handle it? Are you sure you'd not rather suck _me_? I think I'd quite fancy getting blown whilst tied up."  
  
"No." The goading has its probably desired effect—Aziraphale snaps back up and seizes Crowley by the hair again. "You are not to come. Not until I say."  
  
Crowley's eyelids flutter beautifully. "Go on, then, angel," he breathes. "Fuck me."  
  
Aziraphale's lip curls slightly at the vulgarity, an absurd moment of learned behavior, before hoisting himself down over Crowley, who opens his mouth obligingly and takes what he's given.  
  
Aziraphale keeps a grip on Crowley's hair and braces himself on the wall, sliding forward and back slowly. Crowley's tongue has always been his best and worst feature, curling around him, tugging, teasing, undulating impossibly. Aziraphale's lips part as he lets loose a gasp, losing just enough control that he bucks a bit. Crowley doesn't seem to mind, sucking him in hungrily, and Aziraphale opens his eyes just long enough to see the demon gazing up at him, heavy-lidded, gorgeous. He shuts his eyes tightly against it and tugs mercilessly at Crowley's hair, letting himself thrust in earnest, fucking the demon's hot, wet, blasphemous mouth with lustful abandon. In his most terrifying moment of forgotten self, he hopes Above is watching. He hopes they see him, taking pleasure so greedily, glutting himself on it, and that they pull everything out from under him and let him Fall, if only so he won't have to go to Germany and try to thwart what cannot be thwarted.  
  
Crowley knows him too, too well. He does something decidedly unnatural with his tongue, jerking Aziraphale back to reality, inducing him to thrust harder. Crowley swallows around him, making him moan desperately, now braced with both hands on the wall, unable to move. He can only shudder, held for a suspended moment in the demon's mouth, before coming down his throat.  
  
He eases back out, gasping, and hauls himself off Crowley to sit beside him, slumping a bit. Crowley licks his lips and looks up at him.  
  
"All right?" he prompts.  
  
Aziraphale gazes back dully, expressionless.  
  
"I don't want to go to Munich," he whispers.  
  
Crowley nods. "I know."  
  
"This war is going to be horrible."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Aziraphale stares at his counterpart for a moment more before bringing hand to his own face, covering his eyes momentarily.  
  
He can feel Crowley shifting impatiently. "You'll make it. Things will settle again. You'll see."  
  
Crowley's never been good at comfort, or particularly willing to even attempt to provide it, but strangely he is helping a little now. His motives become rather clearer when he says, "Oi, are you going to let me finish now or what?"  
  
Aziraphale purses his lips and glances at Crowley's dripping, neglected cock. He studies it for a moment, detached and thoughtful, before pressing his hand over it—not holding it, but rather rubbing his knuckles over it, rough and businesslike.  
  
"Lazy," Crowley protests, but doesn't have the wherewithal to keep it up, making a sound that could only be described as a whimper before coming across his chest.  
  
Aziraphale miracles away the restraints and the mess with a tired flick of his hand, and sits on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.  
  
There's a pause from behind him—he half expects Crowley to just leave in a vaguely embarrassed huff—but then the demon prods him lightly in the side.  
  
"Hey," he says. "'ziraphale." There's a shift in weight on the bed as he sits up.  
  
"What is it," murmurs Aziraphale tiredly. He doesn't think he can take Crowley asking after his state of mind again, not now. He doesn't know what he'd say. He can't quite grasp what he's just done, but at the same time he doesn't think he'll come to regret it, which is almost worse than the alternative.  
  
"Can I have my clothes back?" is all Crowley says, after a pause that suggests he was _considering_ saying something else, then thought better of it.  
  
Aziraphale shrugs and brings them back with a half-hearted wave. Clothed once again, Crowley pulls himself to the edge of the bed and sits beside him, their hands not quite touching as they look out the window together.  
  
"So, Munich," says Crowley eventually.  
  
Aziraphale doesn't bother nodding.  
  
"It'll be all right," offers Crowley.  
  
Aziraphale's frown tightens. "No it won't."  
  
Crowley drops his chin, looking idly at the floor. "No," he concedes after a moment. "I suppose it won't."  
  
They don't try to talk any more after that, which is probably for the better. But it means Crowley never says stretches awkwardly and says 'well, I suppose I'd better be going,' and Aziraphale never nods and says, 'yes, I suppose you better had.'  
  
Aziraphale never really goes in for sleep, but he makes the exception if only because Crowley's arm ends up curled around his waist and it would be such a shame to disturb him.

 


End file.
